Rites of Passage
by Mir
Summary: Weeks of meticulous planning, hours of preparation, and the whole Castle staff on hand--but of course nothing goes quite right when it's time for Christopher to become the next Chrestomanci. A Christopher/Millie story from DWJ's Chrestomanci series.
1. It Begins in the Rain

**Title: Rites of Passage**  
Author: Mir  
Date: January 9, 2008

Disclaimer: I make no claim to any of Diana Wynne Jones' characters, her storyline, or her overall universe. I do not write for compensation; I do not hold any copyrights; this is purely a hobby that I pursue for personal pleasure.

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Authors Note: I'm not quite sure why I wrote this… it seemed like a good idea at the time. There aren't very many Chrestomanci stories ff-net, so I'm not really expecting a large readership. But it was fun to write and a good deal lighter than anything else I've written lately, so please enjoy. Oh, and although the main storyline itself revolves around the day when Christopher becomes Chrestomanci, there are various sub-stories that are provided as background throughout.

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**Part One: **It Begins in the Rain

It was, truth be told, perhaps the worst handover ever—if you excluded, of course, that unfortunate incident with a rampaging dragon and that greedy half-breed warlock some hundred and twenty years ago. _They should have just followed father's advice_, Christopher would muse to himself years afterlater the fact. _He wasn't famous for his horoscopes for nothing._ But hindsight is always twenty-twenty, and he would sternly remind himself that at least everything turned out all right in the end—or at least it was close enough for government work.

It was impossible that the mishaps could have come from a lack of proper prior planning. Quite the opposite in fact. Even if Gabriel de Witt's mind had indeed begun to wander, Christopher was certain that Miss Rosalie had exhaustively calculated every minute detail and charted every probability than anyone could have possibly conceived. But even a studious a hand as hers _could have_ neglected to factor in the improbable chance that against the odds, that which was statistically impossible could in fact occur.

It was an early Monday morning—chilly, dreary, overcast. But the clouds hiding the sun from view and the wind rustling through the autumn foliage also blanketed the Castle in a sort of, well, cloudy cover, and with the help of a strong weather spell, they shielded it from prying eyes that had no right to witness the ceremony that would ensue. Or at least that was what they told Christopher when he grumbled loudly about going out into the melancholy drizzle.

The ceremony had to be outside. They'd been very firm about this as well. "As old as it may appear," Flavian Temple had said in that certain _lecturing_ tone of his, "Chrestomanci Castle was not always the seat of the position you're about to assume." Christopher made no effort to stifle a yawn as he stared vaguely in the general direction of his teacher. "The office used to reside on the outskirts of London in a quaint two-story manor." Flavian paused, as if to see whether his pupil was still awake. "I visited the site myself several years back. Unfortunately nothing remains of the original structure, and there were only the slightest remnants of old magic still clinging to the land."

Christopher, despite himself, pulled his mind back from its wanderings and found himself inquiring, "old magic?"

Flavian smiled faintly. Dealing with Christopher over the years had taught him a thing or two about the boy's mental wheels, and he'd learned exactly which buttons to push when he needed the other's attention. It was difficult, though not as much of the Castle staff thought, impossible. "Some of the oldest magic I've felt anywhere in this series," he continued in earnest. "It was as though it were rooted somewhere deep below the earth and only just managed to seep up through layers upon layers of soil and rock to ground level. It must have been terribly powerful back when it was first set."

Christopher was well aware that Flavian had only mentioned the manor near London because he knew how interested Christopher was in old, perhaps forgotten magic, but he allowed himself to be drawn into the story because his teacher could be a surprisingly good story-teller given the right topic and audience. "Go on," he prompted just to show he was listening.

"I was curious to discover where this magic was rooted and how it had remained there all those centuries, so I returned after sundown and poked around a bit in the nearby houses and gardens." He pressed his lips together as though slightly annoyed at having to admit he—a government employee—had trespassed around other peoples' property. "It took me a good while, but eventually I found the spot where that _feeling _of old magic was the strongest, and when I stood out on the grass, it was almost as though I could sense the presence of all the Chrestomancis back even before the post was an official government office."

They'd been interrupted at this point by the entrance of Bertha with a tray of tea and biscuits, and as Christopher had absentmindedly squeezed a wedge of lemon into his, he tried to sort out in his mind what this information really meant. "So somehow all those enchanters are still connected with that spot in the ground?" he asked inquisitively, knowing even as he spoke it that this wasn't quite right.

"Well, no," Flavian replied with a slight frown. "And that's the odd part." He added milk and sugar to his cup. "They definitely weren't connected there at that moment, and I knew that some of them had in fact never even set foot there at all." He stirred the caramel-colored liquid with a delicate silver spoon. "There were, you know, other places between that manor and this castle where Chrestomancis lived."

Christopher sighed inwardly, looking somewhat vague again and wishing that Flavian would simply get to the point.

"As far as I could tell, it was as though there was some sort of portal hidden deep within the earth, some portal not for transporting people or objects but rather for channeling magic from one location to another." He fished around mentally for the right word. "An amplifier perhaps, or maybe a conduit." He shrugged. "At any rate, it wasn't anything that I could draw upon no matter how hard I tried. So when I returned to Chrestomanci Castle, I immediately brought up the matter with Gabriel, and he personally went to the site to investigate."

Christopher sat up ever-so-slightly straighter in his chair. Even if he didn't particularly like the current Chrestomanci, Gabriel de Witt, he generally respected his opinion on matters of magic, and if Gabriel had deemed it necessary to put aside his daily business and see this _conduit_ or whatever himself, it must have been something really interesting.

"What Gabriel told me when he returned was that the old manor had been build on some sort of natural magic amplifier that functioned something like a sponge—meaning that it soaked up bits of the magic that was performed on it and held onto it even centuries later. Even more amazingly, it seemed to be able to pull in magic similar to that which it had already absorbed from a considerable distance away—thus the presence of the Chrestomancis who had never lived at the manor itself." Flavian stared over at Christopher with that particularly look that seemed to say, _now listen closely_. "Over the next few weeks, Gabriel, goodness knows how he did it, managed to re-route some of this power into the garden here at the castle. The _sponge_, whatever it really is, is still soaking up traces magic down by London, but Gabriel has been able to study the magical signatures contained in its depths and rediscover some of what we've managed to forget over the years and is now passing these findings along to you."

It was all very fascinating, Christopher thought to himself as he nodded at Flavian's apparent conclusion, but what did it really mean for him? And why would Flavian bring it up on the day before the handover was slated to occur?

"So you see, then, why tomorrow's ceremony has to occur outside?" his teacher asked as if reading his charge's thoughts perfectly. "We want to be as near as possible to the origins of this position. There is the possibility that even if we don't understand the magic, it will somehow help you assume your new post with more knowledge than Gabriel can actively impart onto you."

Christopher didn't have to be a clairvoyant to know that what Flavian really mean by saying this was that he thought Christopher was too young to take over and was going to need all the help he could get. But he nodded vaguely and said simply, "Right, well that's fine."

And so for better or worse, outside it would be—outside beneath the dark clouds that were just beginning to spit rain.

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The second _indignity_, as Christopher liked to call it, were the clothes. _Drab _would hardly do the attire justice, he scorned as he sullenly buttoned the coarse gray trousers and straightened the plain black cravat at his neck.

The memories of his youth, of his mother applying make-up with her maid in her bedroom before sweeping downstairs to float among the sea of bright-colored dresses and hats in the drawing room, had ingrained themselves in his mind, and as much as he detested his mother's insatiable social climbing, he had inherited an incurable taste for finely-crafted clothing, exquisite ties, and hand-crafted boots.

"Just _how much_ is Chrestomanci paid?" Millie had asked one day with more than a touch of dismay when Christopher appeared at breakfast in a new wonderfully-soft taupe-colored suit and gold cufflinks shaped like doves in mid-flight winking from beneath his jacket sleeves. Despite her disgust at the way he wasted money on such expensive clothes, she had to admit that he _was_ more handsome than any man had the right to be in them.

"Oh, the Castle has an expense account," he'd replied in an off-hand sort of way as he helped himself to toast and jam.

"But you're not even Chrestomanci yet," she pressed in response, determined to make him feel remorse for all his spending while she had him cornered at the table. Fortunately, none of the other castle residents had yet arrived. "What does Gabriel do, just let you buy whatever you want?"

Christopher looked across at her, his eyes focusing sharply on her face with more intensity, she realized, than he rarely gave anything else. "Something like that," he replied obtusely as he returned his knife to the table and brought the toast to his mouth.

Millie scowled. He was just _insufferable _sometimes. "But what of the all taxpayers? That money's not really yours to spend—"

Seeing that he wasn't going to get any peace until the matter was settled, Christopher sighed and delicately wiped the crumbs from his lips. "—Gabriel's such a spendthrift. He wouldn't part with more than he absolutely had to even if he had a private vault full of gold." He glanced sideways toward the door as if to make sure that they were indeed alone. "And actually, that's about what he has."

Millie raised an eyebrow in disbelief. "A vault of gold?"

"Well, figuratively speaking," Christopher replied. "Essentially, the Castle has an expense account for all of its daily needs or any business-related purchases, but Gabriel is also guaranteed a certain amount per year for any personal expenses he might incur. Apparently, the amount carries over from year to year but will expire when he leave office and revert back to the Ministry of Magic. Or something like that."

"So he's just letting you run down his account…" Millie murmured, still not convinced that Christopher's purchases were entirely legal.

"—I think at some level he still feels bad about holding me captive by putting my last life away that ring." Christopher laughed—a nice change, Millie thought, from his usual vague expression or sarcastic scowl. "Either that or he's just going senile faster than any of us realized." He hesitated, as though unsure of what to say next, but before he could open his mouth again, voices approached from beyond the door, and Conrad and Jason appeared, deep in conversation about some sort of magical herb.

"Looks like the two lovebirds beat us to breakfast," Jason said with a wink as they hurried over to the table. Conrad laughed, and Christopher scowled. The two had been cracking jokes ever since Christopher had asked Conrad to be his best man at the wedding next year, and he was beginning to regret that he'd ever told anyone at all. Of course, that wouldn't have been fair to Millie.

Next Elizabeth and Henrietta arrived with Bernard in tow, and the room was so filled with spirited chatter and the clink of silverware against china that neither Millie nor Christopher had the opportunity to finish the conversation they'd begun. It wasn't until much later, after the morning's lessons and lunch, that Millie was able to pull Christopher aside into one of the empty hallways and remark—"Christopher," she laced her fingers through his and smiled warmly. "Have I told you, it doesn't matter at all what you wear. You'll always be the same to me." She tried unsuccessfully to stifle a giggle. "Though you were kind of cute in that silly _Improver_ uniform while we were in series seven…"

Christopher flinched, though a good-natured sort of flinch, and found himself laughing as well. "I could always put your bridesmaids in real maids get-ups," he remarked in a flat tone that was all seriousness.

Millie feigned offense, but she knew he was joking. "Oh, you wouldn't dare," she retorted. Christopher merely raised an eyebrow in response. Flavian found them at that point and hauled Christopher away for a lesson with Gabriel and sent Millie off in the other direction to help Elizabeth in the library. And Christopher sighed inwardly at the cruelty of their relationship—for it always seemed to be just a never-ending string of unfinished moments.

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As soon as Christopher stepped outside, however, he was glad that Gabriel had insisted he dress in government-issued, dull clothes instead those of his own choosing. The sky, which had before been only threatening rain, had at last given in to storm clouds and was intermittently hurling huge drops of water onto the group of castle staff huddled miserably on the lawn below.

"About time he showed up," someone muttered from the crowd, but Christopher paid the voice no heed. He'd long since become immune to any ill-will aimed so blatantly in his direction. At the far side of the group was Gabriel de Witt himself, looking grim as ever in his severe black frock coat and top hat. The ends of his white hair were hanging down the sides of his pale face in damp squiggles, and his deep-set eyes were ringed in dark circles. He looked as though he'd aged a decade overnight.

"Good, we can begin," he said dryly as he spotted Christopher. And without another word he began to lead the party away from the Castle toward the walled garden on the far side of the grounds—or at least that was where it normally resided, though the misdirection spell was apt to send it in all manner of places. Someone held an umbrella over Christopher's head, and he looked up into the face of Mordecai Roberts—otherwise known as Tacroy. The man appeared just as grim as the others present but at the same time also managed to look encouraging down at Christopher, his eyes seeming to say, _Don't worry. It's not you. We're just all annoyed with the rain_.

They entered the garden without mishap, and inside its walls the rain seemed to let off a little until it just a light mist that hovered stubbornly in the air and made everything smell slightly moldy. Gabriel gazed around the crowd and in his most serious of tones began, "We are all gathered here today to begin the process of passing the office of Chrestomanci from myself to Christopher Chant." Not everyone present, Christopher noticed, seemed altogether pleased with that reality.

"As you undoubtedly know, although Chrestomanci must be a nine-life enchanter, the office itself grants certain powers to its bearer above and beyond that person's innate abilities. Therefore, while it is possible for anyone to claim the title by himself, a true Chrestomanci only becomes such when the present holder of the office willingly relinquishes the powers to him." Gabriel paused for breath, and Christopher studied his face, studied the lines and the hollows and the sheer _weight _that Gabriel seemed to bear. Was the office really such a heavy burden?

"We shall formally begin the transfer today, and administratively it should be complete within the year. At which point I will retire completely, and Christopher will fully become the next Chrestomanci." By the relieved expression on some of the faces, it was clear that they'd expected the transfer to occur in its entirety that morning and Gabriel to whisk himself away immediately to somewhere quiet and peaceful. _I'm sure they're glad that I'll be under his thumb for another year_, Christopher grumbled.

He almost missed when Gabriel started gathering magic from within himself, from within the garden, from within everyone present. Or rather, he almost missed when Gabriel began to raise his arms. He could never have missed the enormous cloud of magic that grew and grew and swirled and gathered speed as it filled the confined space within the garden and pressed impatiently at the stone walls that confined it. Although he'd been witness to quite a variety of magical displays, this one was something spectacular—quite unexpected too, given the number of surprised gasps around him.

He squeezed his eyes closed against the dust and dirt that was spinning in the air and digging into his skin as the magic whirl continued to gain speed. He hardly felt himself brining his arm up to shield his face, hardly heard one of the women in the group scream, and definitely didn't feel his feet leave the ground as he concentrated on keeping himself together in one piece. It was a complete surprise when he landed, feet first fortunately, in somewhere completely different and even more of a surprise—when the spots stopped dancing in front of his eyes and the ringing faded from his ears—to notice that wherever it was, Millie had been deposited there beside him.

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End Notes: I think I wrote this piece because (1) I like younger Christopher and his character development and (2) because DWJ really don't develop Christopher and Millie's relationship or even show them acting like a couple very often. I know, of course, that she's writing for a kid/young adult audience that probably wouldn't be interested in such things, but… Anyhow, the next part should be out sometime soon.

01.09.08

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	2. And Continues in the Snow

**Title: Rites of Passage**  
Author: Mir  
Date: January 9 – January 28, 2008

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Authors Note: Here's the next part of the adventure. Honestly, I thought it was going to be more of a comedy when I started out. Little did I know that the story would just grab back its plot-line and gallop away from me. Anyhow, at least it's seems easier to write than anything else I've tried my hand at recently. 

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**Part Two: **And Continues in the Snow

Apart from noticing Millie's presence beside him, Christopher's next semi-conscious thought was how thoroughly cold it was in… well, wherever exactly they happened to be. The ground was frozen hard with winter frost, and his breath lingered in the air in icy white puffs.

"Christopher?" Millie asked, shivering as her fingers wrapped tightly around his arm. "W-what just happened?" She was wearing a light-weight linen dress perfect for a mild autumn morning and a frilly mostly-lavender apron trimmed in dark purple ribbon. Neither was much use in the dead of winter. "And w-where are we?"

The two stared across at each, neither quite sure what to do. Then Christopher, proving that he could indeed be a gentleman when he put his mind to it, struggled out of that dreadfully dull gray jacket and wrapped it snugly around Millie's shoulders. He was so thoroughly focused on projecting reassurance that he didn't see her flinch. "Don't worry. We'll get back to the Castle somehow," he announced loudly in way that didn't quite hide his uncertainty. Needless to say, being unexpectedly whisked away from one's own place and time is always a disconcerting experience.

He twisted his head this way and that and became more disheartened by the second as he surveyed the landscape. Rolling snow-draped hills beneath endless expanses of ominous clouds stretched onward as far as the eye could see in all directions. Here and there, the odd gnarled tree jutted upward from the colorless carpet and twisted its way skyward in lopsided juts and spurts as through misshapen by centuries of harsh winter winds. It was all-in-all definitely _not_reassuring.

"Do you reckon we're still in series twelve?" Millie asked, thinking perhaps that Christopher might know better than she since he'd had more experience traveling through other worlds.

It was tempting to think that they'd arrived in series six—the one still stuck in an ice age—but Christopher had learned long ago not to jump headfirst into assuming the obvious. He _hmm_-ed in a thoughtful, non-committed way that could have very well been a statement on the bond market, household expenses, or the latest cricket scores. White flecks of snow collected on his shoulders and melted in his hair. "Perhaps…" he replied at last, not sounding in any way convinced. He shuffled his feet though the powdery whiteness and kicked it into the air with his toes. There was something about it, something almost _fake_about its color, its texture, its soft weightlessness. But he couldn't quite put his finger on it, so he kept that nagging feeling to himself because he knew he wouldn't be able to explain it properly.

Actually, the situation reminded him of an incident several years back when the Castle staff had been vacationing together in Kyoto, Japan. Oddly enough the trip had been Gabriel's idea, though it was Flavian who had ultimately chosen the destination. "When it comes to experiencing the culture of the _far east_," he'd remarked over dinner while absently pushing his food in circles around his plate, "there's just nothing quite like Kyoto." The broccoli took another lap. "Tis a pity that Japan sunk into the Pacific in some of this series' worlds."

_One might think_, Christopher mused as he ate in silence further down the long table,_that the place was in danger of vanishing in this world as well—the way he goes on about it_. The subject lasted all of two nights before Gabriel took the hint and arranged for a house to be rented at the government's expense in a suitably quiet section just north of Japan's ancient capital.

They'd arrived en masse on a drizzly Friday afternoon—an eclectic bunch of British tourists huddled at the far end of the train station like wet ducks suddenly dropped into the middle of a desert. Christopher was thankful at least that his parents were happily ensconced in Tokyo. He hadn't informed them of the Castle's vacation, and it would have been rather awkward to run into them by chance.

Thankully Christopher had managed to avoid most of the _fabulously historic _excursions that Flavian raved on and on about. He, Conrad, and Jason would slip quietly away while the rest of the staff was otherwise occupied and eagerly set about exploring the city's less-historic backstreets. By the third day, Christopher half-suspected that even Gabriel was consciously turning a blind eye to their adventures in order to give them some breathing room away from the adults.

And they took full advantage of their new-found freedom. Romping through busy streets past noodle shops and temples, stores selling dark indigo kimono fabric and others offering odd white pasty sweets, and ladies carrying buckets of tofu and men on their way to the public baths… everything was a whirling blur of colors, scents, and sounds.

"Let's stop for a moment," Conrad gasped one afternoon after the three had chased each other (much to the priests' dismay) across over half a dozen temple grounds. "You and your long legs—" He was talking about Christopher, of course, since the other two boys were more or less the same height. "—I have to take one and a half as many steps to keep up."

Christopher simple raised an eyebrow, a gesture that might have seemed genuinely condescending from someone else. "It's not my fault you've stopped growing," he remarked with characteristically dry humor. "Shall we stop for tea?"

The three ambled onward in search of a teahouse, something that should have easy to find in such a city, but they must have strayed into one of the more seedy districts because after several minutes of searching the only half-likely place they found was a run-down storefront that smelled vaguely of strange spices and wet dog.

A look passed between them—but it only took a moment for thirst to overcome hesitation, and soon they found themselves inside a small semi-dark room face to face with a wizened gray-haired woman. She scrutinized them from head to food then wordlessly led them to a small table against the far wall. It teetered uncertainly on its knobby wooden legs, but the stern set of the woman's jaw and her cool, glistening eyes seemed to suck any complaints right out of the boys' mouths.

They squashed themselves together in the chairs, elbow to elbow, knee to knee, and when they'd finished jostling each other as boys are apt to do, they began to glance around and take in their surroundings. It was quite unlike any other Kyoto restaurant they'd been in thus far. Where most interiors were understated, simply-decorated, and almost minimalist by European standards, this one was positively bursting with paintings and carvings and statuaries and the oddest little knickknacks packed together along row after row of narrow shelves that encircled the room like train tracks. There were stone dog-like lions and odd rounded wooden heads with no eyes and folded-paper animals and a whole manner of things that seemed to blend together in a rainbow-colored rippling blur.

Christopher began to feel almost cross-eyed as he tried to take in everything at once and actually jumped in surprised when the woman deposited a teapot and a small plate of baked sweets onto the table before him. The latter were hard and crumbly and not particularly good.

"Look at this stuff," Conrad said not quite under his breath. "And it's all charmed too." He reached up and pulled a little wooden figurine off the nearest shelf above his head. It shifted in his hand, slipping in and out of focus until it became a puce-colored paper balloon. It slipped from his fingers, fell straight through the table, and vanished before it hit the ground. At the boys' exclamations of surprise the old woman poked her head around the kitchen doorway and glared at them. She retreated again without a word.

"This place gives me the creeps," Jason said with a shutter, not even trying to keep his voice down. "Let's go." Christopher shrugged and began to rise—but found his feet were stuck firmly to the ground and his pants to his chair and knew that if he yanked and tugged physically he wasn't going to be able to budge an inch. There are advantages, though, to being an enchanter, and it only took a moment to _will_ himself and the others free.

They leapt from the table and stormed toward the kitchen, intending to show the woman (who was obviously a witch) what they thought of her tricks, but when as they passed through the wooden doorway, they found themselves alone in a deserted back alley filled with nothing but upturned rubbish bins and weeds. And when they whirled around again to face the teahouse, it was only a rickety old building with upswept floors, grimy walls, and one decrepit table surrounded by four teetering chairs shoved against the wall. Oddly enough the shelves were still present, but instead of glittering knickknacks, they were lined with an incredible amount of Japanese calligraphy—single strips of creamy white paper each marked in flowing Japanese script. It didn't take much witch-sight to see that all together it created an extremely effective illusion.

"I wonder what we ate," Conrad remarked, sounding a little sick. "I hope it wasn't sewage water and dust mites—"

"—Where did that witch go?" Jason interjected, referring to the old woman, of course.

Christopher scanned the room, half-expecting to find her hiding in a pocket of invisibility along the walls. "Gone," he replied with a shrug. He knew he'd be able to sense her if she'd still been there. After witnessing a person's magic once he never forgot the unique magical signature. "Let's go. I'm still hungry." The others grumbled irritably, but it was useless to argue with Christopher when he was in that kind of mood, so the three wandered back into the more touristy neighborhoods in search of a real restaurant.

And as his mind settled back into the present with a jerk, a thought suddenly hit Christopher in the head like a lead weight. _It's not just that the deception is familiar, _he mused as he ground his teeth together in frustration. _It's the signature itself. So that's where I felt it before_. Armed with this new knowledge he wrapped his arms around his chest, feeling slightly better that he wasn't nearly as muddled as before but unsure as to how he could use this new-found connection to his advantage.

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It was by unspoken mutual consent that they abandoned the spot where they'd arrived—Millie had torn one of the ribbons from her apron and tied it to the bottom branch of a nearby tree, but as they walked away from the scrap of purple flapping dejectedly in the breeze Christopher didn't really believe they'd ever be able to find that tree again once their footsteps had disappeared in the falling snow. He did know, however, they'd certainly freeze to death if they didn't start moving.

At first they'd tried walking directly into the sun, or whatever it was that washed light across the barren landscape, but as the terrain became steeper and steeper, they found themselves drifting sideways until the sun was shining almost completely off to their left. The flat plains had turned first into rolling hills, then into craggy cliffs that offered some protection at least from the wind. Millie and Christopher continued on wordlessly—there was nothing really to say except that they were undeniably lost, cold, and hungry.

It was Christopher who first spotted the cave, but it was Millie who found the path that wound them halfway up the rock-face to reach its jagged opening. The interior was dark but dry, and after Christopher had conjured just enough fire to make sure it was uninhabited, they collapsed exhaustedly onto the floor to contemplate their situation.

"Do you think it gets dark here?" Millie asked as she stared outside at nothing in particular.

Christopher shrugged, less concerned about the weather now that they had found a little protection from the elements. "At the extremes of our world, it's light and dark for months at a time," he said at last when he realized that Millie was still waiting for a response. He really couldn't see any good way out of their predicament unless the Castle staff could locate them. They hadn't encountered a single other living being, and the emptiness, both seen and unseen, continued onward for as far as he could reach out with any of his senses. It was so blank—rather unnaturally.

"Do you remember that time," he remarked in a rather bored, off-hand sort of way after they'd been sitting across from each other for almost half an hour, "that time when you finally put your foot down and made me stop referring to Conrad as _Grant_once and for all?"

Despite the cold, Millie managed a small laugh at the non-sequitur remark. "You say that like it's ancient history," she replied evasively.

Christopher shrugged and continued, "I was always surprised by how well he and Jason got along together. Just like two peas in a pod from very the start."

Millie nodded distractedly and hugged her bare knees closer to her chest as though trying to stay warm. It was clear she wasn't very interested in either Conrad or Jason at the moment.

Christopher studied her silently, his lips pressed together in either annoyance or contemplation. Then he stated in his flattest, most serious of tones, "It was actually Jason that gave me the final ultimatum about using Conrad's real name." He paused as through trying to control the flicker of anger that flashed briefly across his face. "And the two of them hated each other when they first met. They could barely stand to be in the same room for more than a few minutes at a time." He scrambled to his feet and towered above Millie as she cowered in a heap on the ground. "Who are you, and what have you done with my Millie?"

He'd expected her (or rather, her _imposter_) to leap up in anger or lash out at him with magic, but she simply sat where she was and looked up through her eyelashes with those big, brown not-quite-Millie eyes. "We'd hoped you wouldn't find out until later," she admitted at last as she unfolded her legs and relaxed her arms as though she'd never been cold to begin with. "We need you desperately, you see."

"Need me for what?" Christopher demanded indignantly, images of human sacrifice and the like coming to mind.

The not-Millie continued as if she hadn't heard him. He voice had changed slightly—it was somewhat higher-pitched and more distant now, as though a portion of her mind was occupied elsewhere. "We thought you wouldn't have come willingly, and it was my duty to guide you through that snowstorm to the meeting place." She gave a frustrated sigh. "And this isn't really your jacket, is it?"

"Well, no, but…" Christopher found himself replying before he could stop himself.

"It has such a strong anti-magic spell woven into it I didn't see how you could possibly stand to wear it." She wiggled her shoulders until the offending jacket slid down her back then pulled her arms through the sleeves and handed it back to him with her nose crinkled in disgust. "There, that's better. Now I can think properly again."

Christopher took the jacket from her rather reluctantly and eyed it with suspicion. Why hadn't he noticed it himself when he'd put it on that morning? He rubbed the fabric between his finger experientially. Yes, now that he knew what to look for it was as clear as daylight—but it wasn't quite as the not-Millie had said. Rather than an _anti-magic_spell, the jacket had been charmed to prevent its wearer from being affected by ambient magic cast in near vicinity (a much more subtle spell). The thing was wound so tightly into each individual threat that Christopher doubted it would have been possible to remove it without destroying the garment entirely. _Gabriel must have had his reasons…_

He was so absorbed in his thoughts the he barely noticed when the girl rose to her feet and began pacing in an odd sort of half-circle slightly off to the left. Her fingers fluttered as she murmured words in some high-pitched tongue, and before Christopher could intervene, a shimmering portal opened in the stone wall beside her. It glistened like sunshine over still water and looked stable enough to be a permanent fixture, not something hastily constructed from scratch.

"I suppose there's no helping it now," the not-Millie muttered with a sigh. "C'mon, I can't keep this gate open all day." She spoke as though Christopher had no choice but to obey, and when he actually weighed his options, they were pitifully few—either remain in the cave and wait for the Castle to find him (possibly freezing in the process) or try his luck wherever this girl wanted to take him. _She doesn't appear particularly threatening_…

"Where does it go?" he remanded a little more forcefully than he'd intended.

"Why, back to civilization of course," she replied evasively. "No one lives out here in the wastelands."

Christopher glared in disapproval. "And is civilization just as cold?"

"Oh no, not at all," she said with a shake of her head that made her brown hair bob in a way so like Millie's that Christopher was all of a sudden quite homesick.

"You'd better drop the charade," he accused before she could continue. "I know perfectly well that you're not Millie, so there's not point continuing to masquerade as her." _She has no right_, he thought to himself, _to wear Millie's face as if it were her own_.

"But it's so much fun," she retorted as her hand shot out and grabbed Christopher by the wrist. With a great tug she yanked him off his feet, and together they fell tripping over each other's feet into the portal. Her voice echoed around Christopher's head as his stomach dropped through the floor. "I always wanted to know how it feels to be so dreadfully plain…"

"But she's not plain—"Christopher thought he heard himself call after her as he tumbled through the pulsing arch, though it might have just been an echo in his mind.

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When, for the second time that morning, his feet hit solid ground he was quite taken aback at the scene before him. This was not, as he'd expected, some barbaric court, nor was it a stuffy drawing room, or even a well-stocked magician's workshop or dingy dungeon. Instead, it was a perfectly ordinary British parlor—though perhaps a decade or so out of fashion. The scattered furniture had a "homely" and "lived-in" feel, and the fireplace gave off such a gorgeous warmth that the whole place was almost surreal.

"Where are we?" he demanded, trying his best to sound both indignant and bored.

And the girl, to his surprise, glanced around this way and that as though she was not exactly sure either. She quickly hid the moment of confusion beneath a haughty "humph," and became incredibly busy flicking imaginary flecks of dust from the front of her dress. It was blue now with a tight-fitting bodice and long, flowing sleeves, and her face had shifted into to what Christopher could only guess were her own features. She sat primly on the edge of a large beige armchair and brushed a fluffy wisp of honey-colored hair from her forehead. "Grand May will be here soon. She'll tell you what you need to know."

Christopher had half a mind to simply walk over to the door in the far wall and leave before this _Grand May_ or whoever else showed up, but before he could take more than a step or two in that direction the door opened, and a tall matronly woman filled the doorframe.

"Ah, you must be Christopher," she remarked as she inspected him with the same sort of glare a school teacher reserves for under-performing pupils. "You're awfully young." She stepped fully into the room, and the door swung shut behind her with a dull thud. "But I suppose you'll have to do."

_Do for what?_ He wanted to shout back in annoyance, but instead he took a deep breath and met her gaze with his blandest, most disinterested expression. "That's quite impossible," he said flatly. "I'm not going to help anyone."

It was as though this was exactly what they'd expected him to say. Neither the girl not the woman looked the least bit surprised. And that was, Christopher thought, all the more infuriating.

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End Notes: Apologies for the rather long Kyoto "interlude" in the middle of this chapter. I inserted it on a whim, and it just kind of got away from me. Perhaps it's my brain's way of telling me that it's time to go back and pay the city another visit…. If you're trying to visualize the interior of the teahouse, think of Howl's room in the Miyazai anime _Howl's Moving Castle _(yes, the adaptation of the DWJ book), and change the bobbles and such to daruma and origami and the like. As for the calligraphy that all the stuff changes into, they're essentially ofuda (御札)—Shinto talismans, which in anime/manga are often magical.

I meant to get this chapter out sooner, but everything's been really busy of late, and I couldn't find a good way to end it. By way of a preview, I'll say that the _real_ Millie will re-emerge in the next part. Thanks for reading!

01.28.08

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